


i see my pretty face in his old eyes

by captainRochol



Series: gamrezi [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Self-Hatred, Slut Shaming, Stockholm Syndrome, Substance Abuse, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainRochol/pseuds/captainRochol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are the queen of clowns. </p>
<p>	That's what he tells you, anyway, in the inky darkness. His voice, hushed and whispered in your ear, is thick with saccharine hatred. </p>
<p>	You punch him as hard as you can across the jaw, and he spits a mouthful of translucent indigo blood and saliva into your face. He smirks, the hued spittle dripping from his lips, and you can only groan in a pleasure from the familiar sense of him digging his rough, untrimmed claws into the crotch of your pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i see my pretty face in his old eyes

**Author's Note:**

> http://youtu.be/gRwFRMGpTWg

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are the queen of clowns. 

That's what he tells you, anyway, in the inky darkness. His voice, hushed and whispered in your ear, is thick with saccharine hatred. 

You punch him as hard as you can across the jaw, and he spits a mouthful of translucent indigo blood and saliva into your face. He smirks, the hued spittle dripping from his lips, and you can only groan in a pleasure from the familiar sense of him digging his rough, untrimmed claws into the crotch of your pants. 

You hate him, you hate him, but not more than you hate yourself, and now you're thinking of Karkat, that poor cherry-filled boy, and now you hate yourself even more. 

So you just let him push the bottle of RedPop between your cracked black lips, and you drink down the too-sweet strawberry swill.

With a buzz in the back of your head you're looser, easier to anger and forget about everything you've done wrong. 

But you're also more maellable, which is exactly what he wants. 

He wants you to yank on fistfuls of his matted, sticky hair as he rips open your shirt. He wants you to scream and try to kick him in the bulge as he yanks your bra off, roughly pinching your dark teal nipples between calloused fingers. 

He laughs low, rough, down in his throat when you shriek in pleasure as he bites roughly at a breast, and tells you to be louder, Karkat might not be able to hear you.

And then, even though your bulge is pressing against the front of your pants, your insides twist painfully, and the next noise is a choked sob instead of a moan. 

He sniggers, asking how you can stand to live with yourself, why, you're just as bad as he is. Even worse. 

You know he's telling the truth, but as he roughly shoves his bulge into you, you try and concentrate on how much you hate him instead of how much you hate yourself. 

-*-

You decided you're not a queen of anything, much less the queen of clowns anymore. You're much more like an empress, perhaps a goddess. 

You are the Clown Goddess. 

You think about this as you idly sip at a bottle of Grape Faygo, listening to Gamzee hiss at you to stop squirming as he applies greasy makeup to your skin. 

You let him; a goddess needs proper makeup, and who to apply it but the Clown God himself?

You close your freshly repaired eyes as he smears the cold makeup over your eyelids, and sigh around the bottle, draining the last few drops of it. 

It's at times like this that you feel oddly at piece with the world, the universe even, and if it wasn't for the fact that Gamzee had to paint your toenails next---

why, you'd probably march over to Karkat's block and tell him everything he wanted to hear, because it was true. 

-*-

You've been demoted. 

He says it's an improvement, as he fiddles with the elastic waistband of your boxers, but you know the truth. 

Becoming The Jester To The Clowns is not an improvement. 

But when you tell him this, your words thick and heavy and muddy, he just laughs, bares his yellowing teeth at you, and says you should be glad, you should be thanking the mirthful messiahs that you are really, truly a clown now!

Keep up the work, Terecita, he said lowly, like it's some sort of secret, and maybe you'll be worth something. 

But you can't do anything in retaliation except take another sip of that fizzy heaven in a bottle and let him fuck you for the third time today, or is it tonight? You don't bother keeping track of time anymore. 

Because when you ask him what time it is, he just laughs that old, honking laugh of his and says it's time to get pailed, Terecita, take off your clothes like the slut you are!

And at any rate, thinking of the time makes you think of Dave, and you miss him too, albeit not as much as Karkat. 

And you muse to yourself that you have a penchant for losing cherry boys. 

-*-

You're not exactly sure what you are now. Perhaps a slave. 

Because you feel like one. 

You're a slave to your emotions, to the bottle, to his bulge and hatred. 

You're sick. You know if you were on closer terms with Rose she'd say something like you had Troll Stockholm Syndrome, but you'd tell her that's bullshit. Then you two would banter in a friendly way until Karkat strides in, in nothing but a lacy thong, saying Miss Pyrope your pail awaits, and---

You're getting carried away with this fantasy. 

So you drink another bottle in punishment and sit on the cool metal floor of the block you're in. You lie down, pressing a cheek to the cold steel, the remaints of week-old costume makeup smearing. 

There had been a time, not so long ago, that you had been able to smell the gunpowder and iron smell of the floor; but now you could only feel it's chill against your scraped, makeupy cheek, and you sigh softly.

You allow yourself to doze off, tangled in your dragon cape as you do. 

-*-

You're an idiot. 

That's what you are, that's what you've always been. 

You hurry back into the familiar block, shucking off your pants and tossing them somewhere by the hornpile as you search for the bottles. 

You want to drink yourself into oblivion. 

Your mouth set into a grim line, you uncap Bottle Number One, and drink it faster than you used to be able to recite the main monologue from Troll Law & Order. 

Five bottles later, and you feel a bit better. You sip at Bottle Number Six as you dwell on what had just happened between you and Karkat on that dream bubble. 

Ten bottles later, and you don't really care anymore. You can mainly just remember him saying something about 'fucked up' and 'your relationship', so you can drunkenly conclude from these two fragments, that he hates you in the most platonic way possible, and wishes you would die. 

Fifteen bottles later, and you're seriously considering it. Your sticky fingertip traces the lip of the bottle, and you ponder foggily how you'd do it. You stand, dropping the half-empty bottle you were holding. You rub your crusty eyes with the back of one hand, smearing your makeup. 

You stumble across the block, your head pounding with exhaustion, your heart aching with breakage, and your back stinging from the spade Gamzee cut into your flesh.

It covered your entire back, and he looked too proud of himself as he flipped you over and put a hand around your throat. He squeezed, smirking as he told you that nobody could love you now, because all they'd see was a giant dogtag on your back, a giant reminder that You Belonged To Gamzee Makara. 

Speak of the Clown Devil. He approaches from across the room and smirks at you. He holds up a long rope in one hand and a grimy pail in the other, and says both are going to happen tonight. 

But since he's feeling charitable, he'll let you pick the order. 

You stare at him for a moment before shamelessly picking the pail. His face says I Knew It, and you turn away from him as you undress. 

-*-

You're guilty. 

You stand on a chair as Gamzee sits crosslegged on the floor, staring up at you. 

You have to thank him, really; he helped with all of this. He let you borrow one of his old shirts and helped you redress in your boxers. He whispered hateful nothings in your ear as he tied the rope to the light fixture on the ceiling, and helped slip the noose around your bruised neck. 

You swallow, lifting your head and turning your nose up at him as he speaks from in front of you. 

The court finds Terezi Pyrope guilty of all charges, he smirks at you. We find no reason for her to deface this meteor with her unwanted precense any longer. 

You agree with him. 

Any last words?, he asks, not sounding genuinely curious, but saying it as a formality. He's only humoring you, and he wants you to shut up and hang. 

You swallow thickly, wishing you had inebrated yourself before this. It would have made this so much easier. 

You glance up at the door, almost hopefully. Maybe by some dumb luck, Karkat or Dave or even the Mayor will come in and stop you. 

You're not exactly sure you want to be stopped though. 

You then pause, thinking. Do you have any last words? Perhaps if Karkat was here, you'd tell him you were hopelessly flushed for him like he had hoped you would be--- but he has Meenah, a dead dancestor of a matesprit who's better than you could ever be. 

Maybe if Vriska rose from the dead or strolled in from a dreambubble you'd apologize, tell her you miss her, say everything you should have. But she's dead, nothing but a perfect stab wound through the heart to remember you by. 

So you shake your head and Gamzee smirks. He stands, crosses over to you, and puts his hands on your shoulders in an oddly tender gesture. 

He smiled, lazy and serene, but his eyes still show the same malice you saw and that turned you on everytime he touched you. 

You shiver slightly, and his lips ghost yours, feeling almost platonic. 

He smiles more against them, then his lips move slightly, whispering I Never Hated You against your own dry lips. 

Your blood runs cold and your stomach shudders as he says this. You can't help but start to cry, and when you fall off the chair and your neck snaps, it's unclear whether he pushes you or

you 

jump.


End file.
